


John: Be the Freshman

by harpydora



Category: Homestuck
Genre: College AU, M/M, PTSD, Post-Sburb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-12
Updated: 2011-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:11:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harpydora/pseuds/harpydora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is John Egbert, and you are standing on the threshold of what will hopefully be the best time of your life.</p><p>(Written in response to <a href="http://homesmut.livejournal.com/8284.html?thread=11580764#t11580764">this kink meme prompt</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has gotten way out of hand. I hadn't intended for it to be more than just a drabble. >.> This is the first five parts from the LJ comment thread with a little more editing and spell-checking. It's still in progress.

Your name is John Egbert, and you are standing on the threshold of what will hopefully be the best time of your life. For the first time ever, you'll get to spend time with your best friends without having to worry about universe-destroying demons, evil kings who accidentally became omnipotent, horrible eldrich terrors from beyond the bounds of time and space, or proper nouns that require special text effects! At least, you are relatively certain that you won't have to worry about such things during your freshman year of college. You're at least 98% sure that's what they reserve for their doctoral students. To say that you're excited would be the world's biggest understatement.

You're a little flustered when Dad drives you to the dorms, so much so that you don't even make an attempt to abjure the cupcakes he made as a dorm-warming gift. Instead, you captchalogue them with the rest of your worldly posessions and give Dad a fierce hug. You _know_ he'll only be a phone call away, but you so clearly remember a time when... well, that doesn't bear thinking about. Besides, that time is behind you! Everything worked out for the best, and now you're going to be living with your best bro ever! And going to classes with your other best friends! With these thoughts in mind, you bid Dad a not-tearful (really!) goodbye and you head for your new home.

The dorms are crowded and a little noisy, and it sets you on edge a little. You have the paper you scribbled your dorm number on clutched tightly to your chest, though it's not like you need it. You are unashamed to admit that you memorized it weeks ago when your assignment came in. It takes a lot of effort to make it through the crowds to the elevator, but you manage finally and sag against one wall in relief when the door closes. You remind yourself that it's only this bad because it's move-in weekend; there's no reason to think that it'll be this out of control all the time. The elevator chimes twice when it reaches your floor and its doors slide open with a distressing clunking sound. You've finally arrived.

Leaning against the wall next to the elevator, you see your bro looking as cool and collected as ever. Sburb gave you all parting gifts after you remade the world: Jade can never get lost and always knows where _everything_ is; Rose can usually tell what someone is thinking just by looking at them; you can predict the weather (and sometimes, if you try hard enough, maybe a little more than predict); and Dave is always in the right place at the right time, like clockwork. You can feel the gigantic, goofy grin on your face as you step out of the elevator and hug him. He stiffens a little but then returns your hug just as hard, if not harder. "Shit, Egderp, are you trying to ruin my impeccably cool track record here?"

"Of course I am, duh!" you reply, but you let him go anyway to survey your surroundings. "So this is home now, huh?"

Dave nods almost imperceptably. "Yup. You are now living on what Rose is affectionately calling 'the Sburb/Sgrub Survivors Anonymous' floor."

Your eyes widen. "Whaaaat?! You mean...?"

Dave nods again. "Yup. Sollux owed me one, so I got him to hack this shit and make sure we got this floor all to ourselves."

As if on cue (maybe it _is_ on cue, because Dave's involved and his timing is perfect), you're surrounded by all of your friends. All of them! Jade is fussing at you for looking so skinny, Rose is critiquing your terrible slouched posture, Kanaya is measuring you for a new outfit, Terezi is trying to get close enough to lick your face (ew!), Vriska is looking smug and trying to pretend she's not that interested in your arrival, and hey, even Karkat is here, looking angry and irritated in one corner of the common room. As you see everyone, you're briefly reminded of "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," because your heart feels like it's grown three sizes just from stepping off an elevator.

This is definitely going to be the best time of your life.

-

As it happens, Sollux hacked a lot more than just the housing database. Since everyone in the SSSA (as Rose calls it) is technically a freshman, you were expecting to never see them during class and only see them sometimes when you got back to the dorm. To your surprise, however, you share all of your classes with at least three of your dorm buddies (though not the same three for each class). It seemed like Dave and Sollux had tried to make sure that everyone got the chance to see everyone else at least once during their days, and a part of you wonders exactly _what_ had happened to make Sollux owe Dave something this big. The rest of you is pretty sure you don't want to know.

Your first week of college life is stressful, but nothing you can't handle! It's a huge jump from going to high school in a small town in Washington to attending one of the top universities in the US; there's a lot more people here. You've always been kind of quiet and shy, but now it's like 1,000 times worse because there's people everywhere! A lot of people end up staring at you, especially girls, and it makes you squirm. You're pretty sure that it's because you're the most awkward thing they've ever seen in the history of ever, but Dave tells you it's because you turned into this "freakishly adorkable Adonis" in the years since Sburb. You don't believe him, but you do notice how a lot of girls (and some boys) blush whenever you walk by.

You make it through your days easily enough with your friends by your side. Any time you feel overwhelmed, all you have to do is look to your side and see one of your friends to feel like you can handle it. It's especially comforting when Karkat starts passing you notes written in block letters that curse every aspect of human education, or when Vriska casually rolls dice toward your foot under the desk, or when Dave shares his earbuds with you so you can listen to his latest sick beats.

By week two, you've pretty much got a handle on things. The work isn't that tough; you and your friends managed to beat Sburb and recreate the universe, so Biology I is hardly rocket science. You spend your downtime in the library or the common area of the SSSA floor or (rarely) in the student center. You touch bases with Dad every couple of days, just to make sure he's doing all right. It's a good routine. You're the happiest you've ever been.

It comes as a complete shock when one of the girls in your biology lecture shuffles up to you and Dave after class lets out. She's cute in the same awkward way Jade was cute when she was thirteen, which is probably why you didn't stutter too much when you greeted her. "Listen, um, John..." Her face is practically glowing and her eyes are locked on your shoes. "One of... One of the fraternities is gonna have a, um, party, um... tonight! I, um, was wondering if, um... you know..."

Dave, being the coolkid (cool _guy_ ) that he is, jumps to her rescue. "Lemme guess, you and your lovely little friends were wondering of maybe Egbert could class the party up a bit, huh?" You can tell that he's playing up his Texan drawl to put the girl at ease, and it works. She nods quickly and shuffles her feet. Dave's arm falls around your shoulders. "Tell ya what, how 'bout we meet you and your friends right here at 8:30 and we all go to the party together? Sound cool?"

You're kind of surprised that the girl does not explode right there. She squeaks out a strangled assent and runs off. Dave turns to you, and you can tell that he's secretly smirking behind his shades. "Jegus, Egbert, you got invited to a frat party before I did. Do you believe me about why those girls've been staring at you now?"

"What're you talking about?" you ask. "You're coming too."

Your bro nods. "Sure, but that flighty broad was talking to you."

It suddenly occurs to you that your best bro in the history of bros has just volunteered you to go to a frat party. "W-wait a second, I have homework!"

Dave snorts. "Dude, it's Friday. We have all weekend to get over any potential hangovers and do what we gotta do for class on Monday."

"But...!"

"No buts, Egbert. Party time is in six hours and you are _not_ wearing that ghost slime shirt."

You have a feeling that life is about to get significantly less awesome, but you don't have the heart to protest any further. Besides, if Dave's going to be there, how bad can it be?

Dave drags you back to your dorm and starts rooting through your closet. "Oh my _gog_ , do you not own anything that isn't fucking dorky as shit?" He pulls out your ectobiologist's suit with a little bit of a disgusted sneer. "What. Seriously. What. Man, there is no way you even fit in this anymore."

A blush creeps onto your face despite yourself. "It's got sentimental value!" you protest, knowing how lame it sounds before the words leave your mouth. "I mean, I gave birth to us wearing that. And it... y'know, it helps me remember that it all really happened. And stuff."

The sneer disappears, replaced by Dave's default coolkid poker face. He puts your things carefully back into your closet and sighs. "All right, looks like the best we can do is t-shirt and jeans. With any luck, we might be able to get you some action."

"What?!" In this moment, you realize that things have the potential to get really bad.

-

It's 8:30, and you can't stop fidgeting. The weather is balmy with a light breeze coming from the southwest. You know that it's going to rain later, but you completely forget to captchalogue an umbrella. Your bro is with you, looking the epitome of all things cool with his hands nonchalantly in his pockets and his shades squarely covering his eyes. Next to him, you just feel goofy and awkward and you're starting to regret letting him talk you into this. You meet up with the girl and a couple of her friends. The girl from earlier shyly takes one of your arms, which seems to be their cue to fawn over Dave. You're intensely uncomfortable, but you try to hide it because Dave looks so unflappable and you can't bear to disappoint him.

The girl and her friends lead you to a fraternity house just off-campus, and it's obvious that the party is already well under way. The girl (you feel like a jerk because you just now realize you don't remember her name) pulls you inside.

The first thing that hits you is the thrumming beat of the music, and it almost literally _does_ hit you. It's this almost tangible force that seems to reach into your chest and override your natural heartbeat. You nearly stumble as it washes over you. The second thing that strikes you is the sheer number of people crammed into this one little house. There are bodies everywhere, standing, sitting, dancing, sweating... The only reason you don't back out of the frat house now is because you have a very awkwardly cute girl attached to one arm and your best bro in the whole world is giving you the thumbs-up. You let yourself be dragged further in, where you can't even hear yourself think let alone anyone else talking to you, and you try to make the best of it.

Somehow, you and the girl whose name you don't remember make it to a sofa. She tries to make small-talk with you, but it's really hard when you have to make her repeat herself so many times. You lost track of Dave after you arrived, and it makes you all different kinds of nervous. Your eyes keep scanning for any sign of him in the sea of noise and limbs to no avail. Much to your chagrin, you're not even paying any attention to the girl who brought you here anymore. Every fiber of your being is bent toward finding Dave's familiar presence again. You're too hot and you're shaking and you're having a hard time breathing, but you just _know_ you'll be fine if you can just find him.

Then it happens. There's a part of you, tiny and logical and unaffected by emotion, that understands that these things probably happen all the time at parties. They're kind of like stairs that way. But that's not how your brain processes it.

Here's happens: you are sitting on the sofa pretending to be interested in this girl who is probably really nice but you're way too nervous and anxious to really pay attention to her. Suddenly, you find yourself covered in something syrupy and blue. Later, someone will tell you that it was just a spilled drink (a "party foul," if you will), but in that moment, it's not. In that moment, surrounded by a writhing mass of strangers making all kinds of noise, it's something else.

Your name is John Egbert, and you are now having a flashback of being covered in Vriska's blood.

The room goes dead silent, except for this one voice that keeps gibbering on and on about the most inane stuff: "Oh gog, oh gog, oh please, this is not cool, oh jeez," and so on. There's a really indignant and detached part of you that keeps yelling at that person to just _shut up for a second_ because they're just making things so much worse when you realize that _you're_ the one who's babbling. And that just makes it worse. You are covered in your friend's blood and it looks so weird and blue and you can't shut yourself up or do anything useful and you can feel the windy thing stir inside you just a little bit and you can hear rain start to pound the roof above your head.

Someone tries to touch you. Reflexively you reach for a hammer from your strife specibus, but you stopped carrying those eons ago when you won Sburb. Instead you just abjure the fuck out of the action with your bare hands. You aren't even really in control of your body anymore; it's like you're riding on your own shoulder while you scramble toward the door. You haven't stopped your strained gibbering this whole time. It doesn't even stop when you finally stumble outside and feel the warm rain on your face. That just seems to make it worse because now you're on your knees and crying, too.

All of the sudden, Dave's right there in front of you. His shades have slipped down his nose a little bit which lets you see the concern in his red, red eyes. "Hey, hey, John, hold up, what's wrong?" His words are quiet, pitched only for your ears. You can't stop sobbing long enough to say anything, so you hold up your hands to show him the coating of blue syrupy ichor that the rain is steadily sluicing away. He knows what it looks like because his eyes widen just a little and he drops to his knees in front of you. His arms, sinewy and strong from all the strifing he's done with his swords, wrap around your shoulders and pull you in close. He's just a little bit taller than you, so he tucks your head underneath his chin.

"Jesus, Egbert, calm your tits. It's okay, it's over, it's done. You don't have to freak the fuck out about it and lose you're shit. We're all fine. You're the Heir of fucking Breath here, so just fucking _breathe_ , okay?" The words are harsh, exactly what you'd expect from a coolkid, but the his tone is nothing but tenderness. You take in a few shuddering, hiccuping breaths but you're still kind of sobbing into his shoulder. "C'mon, John, snap out of it. It's fucking over."

It takes a few more stuttering breaths, but you finally realize the truth in that statement. The tears stop, and the rain slackens off. You pull away from Dave long enough to take off your glasses and scrub at your eyes with the heel of your palm. "Jeez, I'm such a mess," you say.

"Yeah, you are, but you're m-- our mess," Dave replies as he helps you to your feet. "C'mon. Let's get you home."

You nod. It's not even 9:30, and you're pretty sure that this is already one of the worst nights of your life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed a couple of minor continuity errors, which I have fixed. This chapter is a little shorter than the first because the next bit is turning out to be quite a lot longer than I'd anticipated. Still in progress.

By the time you and Dave stumble back to the SSSA, you are both soaked to the bone. You try to haltingly apologize for ruining his night, but each time you start, you look at his stony profile and stop again. One of his arms is draped casually across your shoulders. For not the first time, you kind of wish you were Rose so you could maybe figure out a little bit of what he's thinking but not saying to you.

You find yourself shepherded to the room you share with Dave. Neither of you bother to turn on a light, and the only sounds are the hitching of your breath, the squelching of water in your shoes, and the gentle pattering of rain on the window. You just stand in the middle of the room for a while, dripping and staring at your feet and shivering as the air conditioning kicks on. Finally, you say, "I'm really sorry."

In response, Dave throws a towel over your head. "Don't be a moron. Dry off before you catch a cold."

"You can't catch a cold from being wet," you object half-heartedly, but you start towelling dry anyway. You feel hollowed out and brittle now, like the slightest of breezes could knock you over and break you.

Your bro actually _takes off his shades_ to look at you. The expression that was hiding behind his impenetrably cool facade is like a Wrinklefucker blow to your heart, and he just keeps looking at you like... you don't even know what he's looking at you like, you've never seen the look he's pinning you with right now. Your throat is suddenly tight and drier than LoHaC.

"I'm not psychic like my sister," Dave says at length, his drawl thicker than you've ever heard it, "so I don't know what's goin' on in your head, but you ain't got shit to apologize for, okay?"

You want to tell him about what's going on in your head. You want to tell him about how you thought you'd somehow gotten covered in Vriska's blood. You want to tell him about how you've never been able to stand large groups of people since you won the game. You want to tell him a lot of things which don't have anything to do with your freak-out earlier. But you can't. So you just nod.

He reaches out and ruffles your still-damp hair. "Let's just watch a shitty movie and go to bed. Howzzat sound, Egderp?"

It sounds like the best idea you've heard all day.

-

You finish Friday night watching Con Air on Dave's laptop and falling asleep on Dave's bed. In the morning, neither of you say anything about it. By Saturday night you have finished your homework, and by Monday morning you're feeling okay. You consider the experience a lesson learned about parties and brightly-colored drinks (which is to say, "avoid them both, especially together"), and you're ready to put it behind you.

No one else on campus is.

Your primary defense mechanism in high school had been your goofiness. Combined with going to a small school (your graduating class was only 500) and your high prankster's gambit, it made your high school experience relatively painless if not still kind of awkward. Your locker never got filled with scorpions, you never got a swirly, and you never saw mean things posted around the school. You never really knew what it was like to be bullied.

You're okay with the chilly stares you get as soon as you sit down in your lectures. You're okay with the fact that only your SSSA friends sit next to you. You're a little upset by the scraps of paper that get balled up and thrown at the back of your head, but that's mostly because a lot of people have terrible aim and you don't want them hitting your friends. You find the sneers a little distressing because some of them look a little bit like the default expression of shale imps. You're saddened by the whispers, but no one ever says anything where you can hear it.

By Wednesday, someone has started making flyers detailing the incident and warning other students of your "volatile and dangerous nature when exposed to soda."

By Friday, you're starting to not be okay anymore.

Rather than bring down the rest of the SSSA floor on Friday night, you decide to abscond to the commissary for a quick meal then head to the computer lab for some quiet study time. Dave's been giving you space since last weekend, so you only have to worry about slipping past Tavros and Sollux once your Biology lecture is over.

You're so focused on making sure you make it out of class without attracting your friends' attention that you don't notice the cluster of fraternity kids until you're surrounded.

"Hey, Egbert, you got anything going on tonight?" one of them asks, a vicious smirk on his face. You try to walk past him, but he and his group fall into step beside you. "You deaf, Egbert? I fucking asked you a question." The commissary is in sight, so you pick up your pace and don't answer.

He grabs your collar and jerks you off your feet. You flounder mid-air for half a second before he hauls you up so your nose is level with his. You're pretty sure that this guy could be on the football team because he looks to be about the size of a rust ogre. "I'm talkin' to you, fuckass."

"I just want to go get some food and then go study," you say quietly around the lump in your throat.

This is obviously not the answer he is looking for because he sucker punches you in the gut. You yelp more out of surprise than pain ('cause, hey, you've been stabbed clean through on at least one occasion), but your reaction just seems to encourage him. He drops you abruptly and socks you in the kidney hard enough to send you flailing to the ground. Wheezing, you go for the first thing in your sylladex to use as an aegis and manage to block the next blow with your biology binder. It doesn't do much good when the rest of the frat boy's posse join in, though. You try to fight back (or at least fend them off), but you never allocated fistkind to your strife specibus and you never even thought to put any bunnies or hammers back after your freak-out. Your assailants overpower you easily, kicking and punching and laughing at the strangled pained sounds you make.

Finally, the frat boys get bored. "Fucking pansy piece of shit," one of them snarls, spitting on you. "Just fucking run home and cry to your daddy. Freak."

You lie on the ground for several moments after they leave, taking stock of your situation. Your glasses are skewed, possibly broken. You have a split lip that is bleeding rather sluggishly, as well as a bloodied nose and a couple of miscellaneous scrapes. You have what will likely be one hell of a shiner. You still feel a little woozy from that kidney shot. You have not been stabbed, sliced, or exploded, and all of your bones seem to be intact. Your health vial isn't doing so great. You decide to lie on the ground for a few more moments.

A couple of students pass you on their ways to the commissary.

None of them say a word.

When you feel like you won't fall over if you stand up, you captchalogue your poor scuffed binder and abscond to the bathroom in the computer lab. Dealing with the crowds in the commissary is no longer an option, and you're not hungry anymore besides. You're kind of on auto-pilot again, dabbing blood stains on your shirt with wet paper towels and trying to stop your nose from bleeding any worse. Through the shocked haze, all you can think is that there is _no way_ you can show up at the dorm looking like this. You're a damn mess.

You finally decide huddle in the corner of the restroom, crammed in the space under the bay of sinks, until night falls and you can sneak back home with minimal chance of running into anyone. The computer lab is hardly the focal point of student life on a Friday evening, so no one even comes in to so much as get a paper towel from the dispenser mounted near the door. Everything is quiet. It'd be peaceful, if you didn't ache so much.


	3. Chapter 3

You finally drag yourself back to your dorm after 10. Despite your body's protests, you head for the stairs rather than risk the elevator's habitual clunks alerting the others to your arrival. You successfully make it all the way to your room without bumping into anyone, but your luck runs out when you actually manage to open the door because there's Dave in the middle of the room setting up his mixing equipment. And because his timing is perfect, he glances up just in time to see you, making it impossible for you to just abscond again.

His shades are on the endtable next to his bed, which means you get a clear view of his expressions when he lays eyes on you. At first, his eyes light up and the corners of his mouth twitch when he starts forming a greeting. Then the details of your current state sink in, and his face locks down tighter than a time-locked bank vault, except for this strange burning that makes his eyes look almost like magma. Instead of anything civilized (like "hello" or "'sup"), what emerges from his throat is a terrible and guttural thing that scares you far more than your treatment earlier ever could. "What the fuck happened to you?"

"I, um, uh..." You rack your brain for something-- anything-- to say that might defuse the situation. "Stairs? I-I know you warned me about 'em, but they just kept happening?"

This is evidently also a wrong answer. Dave's eyes narrow as he stares at you. "Egbert, I am being so fuckin' sincere right now when I say this: that shit is not funny. You waltz on up here lookin' like shit on a stick and then try to use my own fuckin' creation against me. That is so not cool that it is currently sippin' cocoa in a jacuzzi inside Hephaestus's own fuckin' forge, got it?"

You nod slowly, afraid to try speaking again.

"Okay." Dave runs a hand through his hair and retrieves his shades. "Listen, I'm fuckin' worried about you. You are gonna sit your happy ass down on your bed and I am gonna go get a first aid kit and then we are gonna get you cleaned up. Then you're gonna either tell me whose world I will have to slam a gog-damned meteor into, or you're gonna have to list of some really fuckin' compelling reasons why I shouldn't start a fuckin' reckoning until I've ended the right asshole. Got it?" Another nod. He doesn't even wait for you to actually sit down before he stalks out of your room.

You plop down on the edge of your bed as carefully as you can. Your glasses have slid so far down your nose that you don't even bother setting them right; you just remove them and absently fold them and set them next to you. It vaguely occurs to you that they are indeed broken, with one of the nose pads missing and one of the arms bent completely out of shape. You don't have it in you to appreciate the fact that the lenses seem intact, though. You're far too concerned with the disconcerting flip-flopping of your stomach and the nagging feeling that you really _are_ a pansy-ass freak. How else can you explain the fact that you flipped out and bolted into the rain when some poor soul accidentally spilled their drink on you? That's not what normal people do. Normal people don't freeze up when they're in a room with a lot of people, either. And they certainly don't start getting uncomfortable because other people start looking like mindless game constructs that don't even exist anymore (and a part of you is a little afraid never did in the first place and you're just crazy for "remembering" them).

Dave returns, a little white case with a red cross on it in one hand and a Ziploc baggie full of ice and wrapped in a towel in the other. "Jegus, we are never gonna get the fuckin' blood out of that shirt," he grumbles, though his words are way harsher than his tone. He sets the little first aid kit next to you and gently presses the makeshift cold compress to your eye. He picks up one of your hands and places it on the compress. "Hold that. Thanks."

He pulls up one of the cheap desk chairs and perches on it (a little reminiscent of a feathery asshole you once met about a lifetime ago). With the blinding speed of someone skilled in the flashstep, he has the first aid kit open and is dabbing gently at the split in your lip. He winces when you hiss at the stinging, but he doesn't stop. "Chill, bro. The last fuckin' thing we need is for your face to get infected. Fuck, did you just roll around in the dirt like a retarded pig or something? Wait, don't answer that." He finishes cleaning your wounds and starts applying anti-bacterial ointment to your scrapes. His accent is thick and his expression is unreadable.

"Okay, done," he eventually declares, leaning back. "Damn. You're gonna be turnin' some interesting colors when the bruisin' really gets goin'."

"Guess I'd better start hiding from Terezi," you say without thinking. You immediately regret it when your bro's expression goes stony again. It is becoming depressingly clear to you that your mouth is only useful for saying exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time.

"Fuck, Egbert, I'm really worried 'bout ya," Dave says so low that you almost don't hear. "I thought, 'Okay, Egbert's just havin' a rough time, I'll just back the fuck off and give 'im some space,' but then you try to sneak in like some goddamn fugitive, so obviously that shit ain't workin'. In all th' years I've known you, th' one thing I never hadda wonder about was what was happenin' up in Casa de Egbert. Tell me what th' fuck is goin' on, man." His expression remains rigid and his eyes hidden, but the fact that his Texas twang is culling progressively more of his consonants and vowels clues you in to how upset your best friend really is. It's like a subtle needle slipped between your ribs and jabbed repeatedly into your heart.

"Dave, I--" The words coil in your throat and refuse to leave. You what, exactly? "I'm s-sorry for worrying you," you eventually stammer. "It's just a bad week, okay? I'm fine!" You try to prove your point by grinning, but that only stretches your split lip and causes it to start dribbling blood again. Quicker than your eyes can follow, Dave leans in and presses a gauze pad gently to your face in order to stop the bleeding. Your heart skips a couple of beats and your breath hitches in your chest. "I-I'm fine," you repeat weakly against the silence.

"This ain't fine, John," he counters. "If fine was our dorms, this's somewhere in Antarctica, that's how not-fine this is. This is makin' fuckin' sno-cones with fuckin' penguins." He's pinned you with a stare that you can't even begin to fathom from this side of his shades, but it makes you fidget under its weight all the same. "What happened?"

"I-- I don't even know." The words slip out, quiet and ashamed. Your eyes are now firmly locked on your knees. "It's really hard to explain, Dave. I don't know if... if I can." You close your eyes and take a deep breath. Then more words just start tumbling out like a quiet little avalanche, "It-- it's so stupid, 'cause it's over and everything's even better now than it was before it happened, but sometimes I just can't stop thinking about it, you know? It's like it's never really over because I can still remember what it's like for Dad to be d-d-dead and what it looks like when K-Karkat or Vriska or Kanaya start bleeding _everywhere_ and how I can't be in a room with too many people because I start f-feeling trapped and scared and I th-think that m-maybe I am a pansy f-f-freak because it's done, isn't it?"

You don't realize that you're crying until you're clutching at your best friend for dear life and his arms are wrapped around you again. The gauze pad and cold compress have been cast aside, not that it really matters to you while you're wracked with terrible full-body sobs. You press your face into his chest (as if hiding your face will make the burning shame go away), but the angle is awkward because of how he'd been perched on the edge of the chair while he cleaned you up. Seeming to sense this, he shifts over to the edge of the bed instead and pulls you in tighter. One sword-hardened hand starts rubbing soothing circles on your back. "You ain't a freak and you ain't a pansy," he says fiercely into your hair. "You're okay, y'hear me? Th' shit we went through-- _you_ went through, it was so beyond fucked up. You ain't a freak."

He keeps up a steady flow of soothing words delivered with an ever-deepening Texan flavor and the same smooth rhythm he uses on his raps, but you can't even begin to process what they actually mean because you're sobbing too hard. By the time you're finally able to get a handle on things again, your knuckles are white where they're clinging to Dave's shirt (the front of which is now completely soaked through), one eye is swollen shut, and you ache all over. You try to pull away so you can wipe the snot and tears from your face, but your fingers won't let go. You settle for resting your forehead on Dave's shoulder, slumping forward, and sniffling instead. "It's okay, man. It's okay. Feelin' better?"

"No," you croak, but it's maybe only three-quarters true. Your head is throbbing, your body aches, and your throat is definitely sore, but you do feel a little better for having had a breakdown.

Dave gently begins loosening your grip on his tear-soaked shirt. "C'mon, Egderp, let me go so I can get outta this mess." This time when you will your fingers to unclench, they actually obey, but without them anchoring you upright you flop backwards onto your bed. Dave peels his shirt off and tosses it unerringly into the hamper you both share by the door. You feel him flop down next to you. "I want you to talk to Lalonde," he says, voice a little more collected now.

Rather than forming a proper response, you blurt out, "Bluh?"

Your bro sighs. "Listen up, 'cause I'm about to lay somethin' on ya that not everyone has the privilege to hear." In a seemingly abrupt subject change, he asks, "How long d'you think we were playin' that fucked up game?"

"Bluh, I don't know. A few days?" That's actually a little white lie; just about every part of your time in the Medium is burned indelibly into your memory. It takes no effort to recall that you spent a total of a hundred and forty-eight hours and thirty-two minutes, but you suddenly feel awkward acknowledging the fact that this particular piece of information is so close to the surface. Okay, so maybe it's more of a big white lie. "Why do you ask?"

"I can tell you down to th' second how long each and every one of us was in there," he says. "Alpha Dave--that's me-- spent about a month in there. Add in all the doomed Daves whose shit I can remember if I try hard enough, and that goes up to almost a fuckin' year."

That causes you to twist around so you're facing him. His profile is strangely serene despite the horrifying implications of his statement that dance through your head. "Jegus, I didn't even realize, I'm so sorry," you stammer.

Dave smirks. "It ain't like that, bro. I'm just making a point: I know what that game does to ya. It gets in your head and fucks shit up." He turns to face you. "Now this is th' shit no one gets to hear, 'cept Bro and Lalonde, and if I find out you let anythin' slip this'll be the last you get t'see of my devastatingly beautiful visage, got it?"

Wide-eyed, you nod. "Of course. I'd never betray my best bro."

"D'you remember how I'd always be buggin' ya to video chat with me even if it was the middle of the night or one of us fell asleep at th' keyboard?" Dave asks, again seeming to shift the subject.

"Yeah." Which is to say that you actually remember it quite clearly. If you were to be completely honest, you found it very comforting, especially in the first few weeks following Sburb. Sure, more often than not you would be the one falling asleep face-first on your desk, but you cherished the knowledge that your best bro was alive and well and talking to you even when it was almost sunrise. There had been a part of you that had been worried that all your friends would cut you loose once everything was over, but there was an even larger part that had been especially afraid of losing Dave. "'Course I do."

"I spent a lot of time by m'self," he says, his accent creeping back into his speech. "In the game, I mean. Spent a lot of time by m'self 'fore the game, too. After we won, though..." He trails off. You scoot a little bit closer, offering your hand and silently willing him to understand that you're here for him if he needs you. It works, because he wraps his fingers around your hand and holds on tight. "I started losin' my shit, bro. I'm not even gonna lie, it was pathetic. I couldn't take it, bein' alone and hearin' that tickin'. That's why I'd start pesterin' ya for video chat, so I could pretend I wasn't alone before I started executin' some completely unironic swan dives off the metaphorical handle." He pauses to take a deep breath. You squeeze his hand but don't say anything.

"Few months back, Lalonde cornered me 'bout it," he continues. "I thought it was just me, thought that tickin' was just me goin' apeshit. Rose proved me wrong. What happened t'us ain't normal, but what's goin' on right now, with you and me, that's just natural post-traumatic bullshit. She's been helpin' me get through it. I want you to talk to her, too. I'm fuckin' worried about ya, bro. Seriously."

You close your eyes and pull in a long, slow breath. You can feel the heat radiating from Dave's body, can practically feel his pulse as close as you are to him. His words make you feel strange. Not the admonitions to consult with Rose; the other words, the ones where he admitted to needing your company to keep from going off the deep end. With him lying next to you like this, it's a little easier to admit that you feel the same way. His presence means more to you than you'd be willing to own up to under normal circumstances. You swallow hard. "Okay, I'll talk to her. But tomorrow. I think we should do something happier now."

Dave quirks an eyebrow at you. "Like what?"

You shrug, though the effect is somewhat lost since you are sore and lying on your side. "Well, I guess we've set a precedent for watching movies after emotional distress," you say cautiously. "But I picked last week, so this week is your choice?"

Your best friend in the whole world stares at you from behind the shades you gave him years ago. "Sure, why not. I'll try and educate you about movies that don't suck gigantic troll bulge."

"Ew. That is a really gross mental image, Dave." You wince when it hurts to make a disgusted face. Dave just snorts and reaches up to brush some of your hair out of your eyes.

"Whatever. Go change into your PJs or somethin' and I'll go make us some popcorn."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Coming into the final stretch here. This scene went on a lot longer than I was expecting. Hang in there, dear readers!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALSKDJFSLJ I am really sorry about how long this has lain dormant. I didn't even realize I hadn't posted everything to AO3 that was on the kmeme. Consider this my peace offering! I am actually writing the next bits as I post this, so hopefully it won't be as long a wait. ._.;

You wake up later that night, sore, exhausted, and entirely unsure of when you fell asleep. You don't even remember Dave coming back with the promised movie snack. He must have returned with it at some point, though, because you can vaguely make out a large bowl on the endtable. Your bro himself is seated cross-legged sort of in front of you (sort of because you're sort of curled up around him on your side), eyes fixed on his laptop and the fingers of one hand absently running through your hair. It's a little weird but kind of... nice. Before you know it, you've drifted off again.

The next time you wake up, Dave has shut down his computer and is trying to slip away without disturbing you. Feeling a little groggy (and maybe a lot cheated), you snag the hem of his shirt in stiff fingers. Pulling him back down onto the bed is beyond your tired body, but he stops anyway. You have a hard time making out his face when your glasses are broken and one eye is swollen shut, but you get the impression that he's startled. "Hey," he says softly. "Thought you were asleep."

"Was till you got up," you mumble. It doesn't ever cross your mind to pull out a white lie of any size. "Don't go."

The startled expression shifts to something you lack the eyesight to read. His fingers gently disentangle yours from his shirt and briefly squeeze them. "Hey, s'okay. I'll be back." You have no reason not to believe him, so you let him go.

True to his word, he returns a few minutes later, right as you're wandering back into that twilight zone where you're just barely conscious. He's traded his jeans for the soft pajama pants he usually sleeps in, and he's left his shades on your endtable. Even through the fog of sleep, you can't help notice how strangely naked he looks; you would even go so far as "hesitant," or even "awkward." The lines of his body are the same ones you've been familiar with for the past five years, but their arrangement is a far cry from his typical coolkid persona.

He sits on the edge of your bed. Reflexively, you grab him by the waist and pull him closer, which elicits a strangled sort of yelp from him. Definitely not the coolest thing he's ever done, but you can't find it in yourself to care about much more beyond the fact that he's solid and there for you. Once he gets over the initial shock, he doesn't even ask any questions. He just lets out a sigh and nudges you over until he can lie down next to you.

Once he's settled, you press your face into his side and breath deeply. You can feel his skin prickle up into goosebumps under your cheek, which only makes you pull him closer. He shivers. "W-whoa, Egbert. What's gotten into you?"

You still lack the desire to craft another white lie. "Dunno. Just... need to make sure you're really here, I guess."

Dave shifts, putting his arms around you. "Yeah, m'here."

For a moment, the feel of his skin against yours actually makes it harder to believe him, because why in the world would someone as cool and collected and frankly amazing as Dave Strider allow someone as goofy and awkward and messed up as you to cramp his style this way? You try to squirm away, but he holds on to you. "Nope. You wanted an armful of Strider and you're just gonna have to deal with it." His words slice the moment in two, and you settle down.

You wake up again in almost exactly the same position you nodded off in. The main reason you know you'd fallen asleep is the extremely embarrassing puddle of drool under your mouth. Under normal circumstances it would only be mildly embarrassing (especially since it's not like Dave doesn't know you drool in your sleep), but your head happens to be resting with your ear right over Dave's heart. The steady thrum of blood through his veins is the primary force keeping you from dying of awkward right then. Secondary forces that ensure your continued existence include the soft brush of his fingertips at the nape of your neck and the rumble just underneath his heartbeat that your brain finally identifies as words.

"I swear to gog, I'm gonna kill anyone who tries to fuckin' hurt you again," he's saying into your hair. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to ya. I'd rather die than let anything happen to ya. Ya got me through hell. I'm never gonna let you go."

Your heart stutters for a second when you start parsing what he's saying. "D-Dave?" Your voice wavers dangerously.

The words stop. It feels like the whole world stops, and maybe it does; sometimes you can still do the windy thing (sort of), so you'd believe it if Dave could sometimes change time. You pick your head up just a little and look at Dave's face. It's vaguely outlined in the ambient light coming in from under the door, but all you can really make out are his eyes. They are huge and red and filled with so many emotions that you can't even begin to name them all.

As if acting of its own accord, your hand finds the sharp line of his jaw and your thumb runs absently over his cheekbone. He makes a low noise deep in his throat, and the only thing left in his eyes is longing. He licks his lips. "John."

"Yeah?"

Dazedly, he says, "I'm about t'do somethin' real stupid. Izzat okay?"

"S-sure."

You see it in slow motion. His hand (the one that isn't curled in the hair at the base of your skull) falls lightly on your cheek, pulling your face just a little closer to his. His pulse is racing; you can tell because it's beating so furiously you can feel it in the tips of his fingers. You don't know what he's going to do, except that is the biggest lie you have ever told yourself because you know _exactly_ what he is doing as if you were the Seer and not Rose or Terezi. Your mind is racing almost as fast as Dave's pulse, but then his lips are on yours and everything is silent.

It's an all right kiss, all things considered. Dave's lips are soft and warm against yours, and he is extremely gentle, almost tentative. More so than the kiss itself, you're shocked by his timidity. It's almost... anticlimactic. You can't fathom how someone as intense as Dave Strider could be so-- so downright meek. You pull away enough that you can take in the almost ashamed look on his face and the way he won't meet your eyes. It kind of breaks your heart.

"Hey... Dave?" You're pretty proud of the way your voice doesn't crack.

"Yeah?"

Your breath catches in your throat. There is a part of you, a very large part of you, that is currently yelling at you to stop before you break the best relationship in your life. There is a part of you that is warning you that this can only be the ultimate gesture of irony and that there is no way this won't end with someone's heart getting wrecked. And then, there is the part of you that is sitting very quietly and very patiently in the recesses of your brain. This part of you is the one that was disappointed that Dave didn't go further.

That is the part you listen to.

"That wasn't stupid," you manage to say. Then you kiss him back.

You are not as gentle as Dave was, which you almost instantly regret when your lower lip reminds you that it was, in fact, grievously injured earlier that day. You pull away again, hissing and bringing your hand up to check for blood. Yep, there it is, warm dampness on your fingertips. You groan in frustration and grumble, "Oh my gog I fail at life ow."

For his part, Dave is looking equal parts amused and baffled (and it's a little strange how attractive he looks with just a smudge of blood at the corner of his mouth). Time seems to resume its normal flow when he finally starts chuckling. "You just got your ass beat, Egderp. It's not exactly prime time for sloppy makeouts." He briefly gets up and returns with another gauze pad which he presses to your lip again. "Here. Take it easy, bro, or we'll have to go get you some stitches and then you'll have a rugged scar and no one will be able to resist you."

You roll your eyes. "Whatever. It'll just make me ruggedly derpy."

Dave chuckles. "Hey, bro, you may want to prepare your body for the shocker of the century: I'm kinda partial to the goofy ones with glasses."

Heat rises to your cheeks, though you're pretty sure it's mostly hidden by the bruising. "Is that a thing now?"

Your best friend in the world looks at you in such a way that you're sure he would pull out an ironic head bob (possibly followed by a finger snap and the word "gurrrrl" delightfully drawn out with his Texas twang) if he were in any other situation. "Egbert, that is a thing that has been happening since the dawn of man. Neanderthals looked at each other and they knew that fire is hot and rain is wet and Dave Strider has a thing for goofy kids with buck teeth and glasses and no taste in movies."

At the second mention of glasses, you wince. "Oh no, I have to get those fixed this weekend."

"Pfft. It'll be fine. I'll go with you tomorrow and we'll get 'em fixed."

"Promise?"

Dave nods. "Yup. Promise."

\---

You half-expect things to be weird in the morning, and you're half-right. You managed to make it through the rest of the night without bleeding or drooling on Dave, who had eventually passed out next to you on your bed. When you wake up, he lazily ruffles your hair and it is simultaneously the most heart-warming gesture ever and the most butterflies-in-the-stomach-inducing. It confirms that you didn't dream what happened after you got back to the dorm. The general aching of your body, the split lip, and the shiner all confirm that you didn't dream what happened before you made it back to the dorm, either. It doesn't occur to you that things might get really weird when you head for the common area to get a pastry out of the vending machine.

You don't bother with your glasses, seeing as how they're broken anyway, but you did steal Dave's pink bunny slippers to keep the chill of the tile from your toes. You're pretty sure that you look really pitiful right now, but you don't really care. You skipped dinner last night and now your stomach is demanding recompense in the form of a delicious and unhealthy prepackaged danish. You're sure there is no way that this can end badly. No way at all.

The hall leading to the common area is empty and quiet, the side-effect of being early on a Saturday morning. The likelihood of anyone other than yourself actually being awake is so miniscule that you'd need a microsco--"Oh my gog, John! What happened to you?"

As it turns out, Jade, Rose, and Kanaya are currently using three of the chairs in the common area to engage in an early-morning stitch-and-bitch, and Jade has just spotted you. She drops her project (which may or may not involve some form of gun; it's difficult to tell without your glasses) and executes a perfect youth roll over the back of one of the couches in order to reach you. Before you have the chance to say anything, she starts palpating your person. "Is anything broken? Does it hurt when I do this? Are you okay?"

"Ow, ow, yes that hurts, please stop," you say, wincing. "I just had a scuffle with some jocks, that's all! I'm fine!"

"What?!" Jade's eyes grow wide, then narrow to slits. "Oooh, who do I have to feed to Bec?"

Kanaya politely clears her throat. "Jade, dear, I believe that you are making John uncomfortable. Maybe it would be more productive to step back and allow him to breath?"

Jade makes a little squeaking sound and flushes. "Oh, right! Haha, sorry! Still, um, getting used to personal space! Sometimes it's hard to remember that other people weren't raised by my best friend."

You gently pat her shoulder. "It's okay! You're just worried. But I'm fine, just really craving a danish."

"Here, let me!" Your ectobiological sister rifles through your PJ pockets for your change. You yelp in protest, but she already has the money in hand and is skipping toward the vending machine before you can protest properly.

"Personal space!" you call after her ineffectually. You can't tell for sure, since the world is still all blurry, but you think Kanaya and Rose may be giggling behind politely raised needle-work. Rather than standing there awkwardly, you decide to flop down (carefully!) into a chair next to Rose while you wait for Jade to return with your danish.

Kanaya returns to carefully stitching once you've seated yourself, but Rose sets her project neatly in her lap and favors you with one of her eerily penetrating looks. "I know there's something wrong, John," she says, her voice cool and even. Despite your best efforts, you still squirm a little. "Since last week, you've seemed much more reserved, and I've noticed that some of our classmates have been acting differently around you. I do not claim to know what's happened, but I _do_ want to say that we're here for you."

"Rose is correct, John," says Kanaya without looking up from her work. "After all that we've been collectively been through, I would hope that you understand this."

Jade returns with your danish, dropping it in your lap before hugging your shoulders fiercely. "It's true! What kind of a big sister would I be if I wasn't here for you?" She presses her cheek against yours, the one not brused and swollen, and you can't help but smile a little (though not a lot, seeing as how you don't fancy bleeding some more). Awkwardly, you try to return the hug.

"You're the best," you say, and you definitely mean it. "Thanks for getting me breakfast."

And just like that, things are no longer weird. You eat your danish while the girls chat about classes and difficulties adjusting to college life. Rose, as it turns out, is really bad with trigonometry, and Jade and Kanaya are both really good at it. On the other hand, Jade is very bad with people (especially ones named Tavros and sometimes ones named Karkat), while Kanaya and Rose seem to have a decent handle on the workings of your friends' minds-- though for wildly different reasons. Kanaya's problems are few, or so she says, but she finally admits to struggling with her literature course. You're pretty sure you catch a sly smile on Rose's face when she claims that she "will be happy to elucidate" Kanaya on "the finer points of dramatic irony." By this point, your danish is long gone and you have no needle-work project in your lap, so you abscond back to your room feeling a little like you've just walked into the Twilight Zone.


End file.
